


advent

by bibliocratic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Rated T for Martin's Foul Mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliocratic/pseuds/bibliocratic
Summary: The Archives, in the run up to Christmas.
Relationships: Archive Polycule - Relationship, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 63
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2020





	advent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluejayblueskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to bluejayblueblueskies - I hope you enjoy your present!

**1st**

“It’s not going to fiiii-iiiit,” Tim sing-songs with a mouthful of chocolate, not making any motion to help from his slouched position against the door frame. It looks like the angle of his body is bolstering the lintel, and knowing this ramshackle old flat, maybe it is. 

“Shut the fuck uu-upp,” comes Sasha’s forced warble back.

Tim grins, and rubs at where a bit of chocolate has crumbled into the weave of his jumper. It being the first of December, he’s swandived without hesitation into the festive spirit, digging out his collection of geeky Christmas jumpers, which goes some way to explaining why his chest is now festooned with a knitted rendition of a Darth Vader head wearing an oversized Santa hat.

He chomps down on the wide part of his Toblerone triangle as he watches Sasha huff out a frustrated breath, inching forward a few centimetres on big, flappy snowman slippers. The little red bells in place of holly berries on her earrings jangle feverish as she sways.

Martin, his voice muffled by fake fir branches, exclaims an anxious ‘woah-woah-woah!’ as the tree tilts dangerously to the left, then overcompensates by leaning hard to the right, and they strain vocally to correct their calamitous course.

“It’s unbalancing.” Jon pipes up dryly and he pads to stand by Tim, disapprovingly observing the disarray of plastic and carboard boxes that he’ll no doubt be responsible for taking out to the green bins in the morning.

Two varying exclamations of ‘you bloody well help then’ discourage him from further comment. Tim cracks off a section of Toblerone chocolate for Jon, as Sasha nearly pitches forward in her clearly inappropriate footwear and squashes Martin against the back wall.

Neither Tom nor Jon contributed much to this part of the festivities. Tim considered it his solemn duty to stock them up on every seasonal sweet and chocolate, meaning there is a veritable Santa sack of tooth-rotting goodies on the kitchen table. Jon, by his own admission, mostly forgot to buy anything except the Christmas edition of the _Radio Times,_ which he has already savaged with highlighter pen to denote all the films and one-off specials he wants to watch. There has already been insurrection from within the house, and Jon, sour-faced and rolling his eyes in a ‘ _fine_ ’, has unwillingly circled the _Strictly Come Dancing_ (Sasha), _Downton Abbey_ (Tim) and _Call the Midwife_ (Martin) Christmas specials.

It hadn’t mattered too much. Martin, it turns out, went entirely overboard in buying baubles and decorations. Sasha, who had amassed her own explosion of Christmas-themed trappings over the years and bought them with her in a huge cardboard box when they all first moved in, has strict opinions on maintaining a tinsel to fairy light ratio, and was the only one of them who knew where to buy the Christmas tree they are now struggling to fit into their flat.

The tree, eventually, stands wonky and proud in the corner of their pokey living room. Its crown crushed over in an awkward bow that curves the topmost branches over where they reach the low ceiling.

Martin and Sasha, sweaty and red faced and beaming, give each other a high five when they stand back to marvel at their off-balanced success.  
  


* * *

  
**4th**

“Ok, ok, but no, I’m serious, just – just give it here, then watch, ok?”

Sasha raises her eyebrows, but suspiciously passes over her chocolate orange. She’s been thumping it against the top of her desk with increasing frustration for about half an hour in order to break it open into edibility from the round solid ball of flavoured chocolate it currently is. But Tim has a plan.

He gestures Sasha to follow, and after cracking out their poor postures when they stand, they make their way into one of the storage rooms, where a dusty and harried-looking Martin is frowning at Jon’s awful handwriting, trying to figure out where the file clamped in his hand is meant to go.

“Hey, Marto, open that for us, will you?”

Tim lobs it in a casual arc, and Martin fumblingly catches it.

“Another one?”

“Sasha ate all my segments,” Tim lies easily.

Sasha casts him an unreadable expression that quickly turns to impressed and mildly awed as Martin, with a thoughtless ease that doesn’t fit with the rest of him, whacks the top of the round chocolate with the hard thud of his closed fist, and passes it back.

Sasha peels back the foil wrapped to see the now-perfectly separated orange segments of chocolate, spread out like a fan in its shimmering wrappings.

“Like a charm,” Tim says, beaming.  
  


* * *

**  
8th**

The lights on the Christmas tree are pulsing dimly in multicoloured patterns that speckle like stained glass against their horrible seventies wallpaper. Jon has sprawled his long legs over Tim’s lower half, anchored up into the corner of the sofa like a lying down question mark. He’s half watching the _Vicar of Dibley,_ even though his eyes keep drifting to the book on his lap.

Tim’s knees are littered with brightly-coloured empty wrappers. One of Tim’s many boxes is taking up most of the small side table by the sofa, the TV remote and Tim’s reading glasses almost pushed off by its size.

Tim picks out a caramel, eyes still on the screen, shucking it from its shell in a way that is too fiddly for Jon to do with his left hand. Passing the shed sweet over to Jon, who takes it with a murmur that might be a thanks, eating it in a squirrel-ish nibbling gesture.

Tim unshells his own golden-wrapped one and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.  
  


* * *

**  
10th**

“ _Fuck,_ ” they hear Martin exclaim explosively, and it’s at that moment, in perfect discordant harmony, that the fire alarm goes screeching off.

“You alright, Marto?” Tim shouts through to the thin strip of galley kitchen on the other side of the wall.

“Yes, yes, fine, _fine_!” There is the acrid stench of something having burnt, and Martin’s heavy footfall stomps through the cramped room. The frantic flap flap flap of a kitchen towel to scatter the smoke, and Martin’s manta of ‘ _shit,_ fuck, shut up shut up shut up’ bleeds through over the film.

“Should I …?” Tim says, already starting to rise. Sasha shakes her head, and puts her hand on his knee to keep him down.

“Just let him work through it.”

Twenty minutes later, a flush-faced, smoke-smelling Martin moodily join them. Tim reads his storm-glower expression, and pointedly doesn’t mention that their kitchen smells like a failed barbecue, or that the clinging smell of burnt mince pies is cottoned into Martin’s hair.

Martin flops down. Tim raises his arm up deliberately without saying anything, and Martin folds like a deck of cards and allows himself to be bundled in between the two of them.

“We’re not even at Marley yet,” Sasha points at the TV. “Want us to rewind?”

Martin sighs.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Why not.”  
  


* * *

**  
14th**

“Oh lord, not _again._ ”

“Don’t be like that, boss, come on - it’s Christmas!”

“And we watched this the other night!”

“A different version!”

“They’re all the same story!”

Tim raises his hands as if he’s despairing, or beseeching heavenwards.

“ _Jonathan,_ ” Tim says. “It’s a _classic._ It’s a socialist manifesto wrapped in the guise of festive cheer. It’s about terrorising old rich white guys into spreading goodwill to all men. You love all that stuff! It’s exactly up your street! It’s all ‘eat the rich, fuck the Tories, ‘I went to the Iraq War demo and nearly got kettled’…”

“Alright! You’ve made your point. I still think we should watch something else.”

“What we need,” Tim says, and his eyes sparkle as he winks at Martin, who has been trying to do a crossword and ignore the both of them, “ is an arbitrator.”

“Don’t get me involved – ”

“Martin!” Tim says grandly. “What would you prefer? Scrooge hamming it up, _or…_ boss, what’s your vote?”

“I mean _anything_ asides from another – ”

“Jon-a-than.”

“Fine. Um. _It’s a Wonderful Life._ ”

“Aw no, come on. It’s just so heart-breaking. Martin’s always a wreck by the end.”

“I’m not!”

“You are too. And anyway. It’s over two hours long!”

“Does your attention span not hold for that long?” Jon makes that quirking expression of his that is his own soft version of a smile. “This explains so much. Anyway, Sasha would agree with me.”

“Ah, but her vote doesn’t count because she's not here. So tough. Final vote. Martin?”

Martin, his eyes fixed on his crossword, mumbles something about Patrick Stewart, and Tim declares his victory with delight, giving Jon an obnoxiously loud kiss on the cheek. Jon pretends to look put-out.  
  
  


* * *

**  
16th  
  
**

“ _Fuck, shitting bastarding fuck.”_

The fire alarm goes off again, and Martin sets off on his muttering, hissing diatribe against himself, Christmas and their terrible oven like taking the lid off a pressure cooker.

Tim, who has learned by now, mourns the promised gingerbread men he was looking forward to, and gives Jon a look that communicates ‘say absolutely nothing’ when Jon wrinkles up his nose and opens his mouth to make some comment.  
  


* * *

**  
17th**

“We may never see them again,” Sasha says. The last part of her sentence is distorted by her polishing off the end of her bratwurst with obvious relish.

Martin nods with a ‘what can you do’ expression, passing her a spare paper tissue to wipe at the sliver of caramelised onion that’s fallen onto the thick loop of her scarf. In a final gulp, he finishes off his mulled wine, complete with the over-priced ceramic mug that will join the fleet of mismatched cups he has in the cupboards over the hob.

“Lost to some fancy cheese stall, is my guess,” he says. “Jon’s been looking for Wensleydale.”

The Christmas market is buzzing, and hectic, verging on just a little too loud for him, so he’s content to stand off to the side near a Belgian waffle stand with Sasha, admiring the scattered twinkling of lights and the smells from various stalls. He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Tim or Jon for about twenty minutes now.

“Think I saw Tim near some artisan gins or something.”

“We’ll definitely never see them again.”

From his vantage point compared to Sasha, he can see further out over the heads and hats of bundled up Londoners. It’s not yet three, but it’s rapidly dipping dark, and Martin’s grateful for his gloves, feeling the nip of the cold at his exposed wrists.

“You got all your shopping done?” Sasha asks, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets.

“Got most of it done last week. You?”

“Still want to get Jon something.”

“He’s awful to buy for, right?”

“Just the worst.”

“Least you can just get Tim some posh alcohol.”

“I got him some of those proper gin glasses. They were selling them off in Debenhams.”

“Ah nice one. I got him those, you know those, whiskey stones, they’re like squares of rock, but you put them in the freezer like ice cubes?”

“Huh. Neat.”

“But Jon… Not a clue.”

“We’ll think of something.”

“Hmm.” Martin has one last glance around to see if he can sight any flash of their lost members.

“I think I saw someone selling Bailey’s hot chocolate over there,” he says, pointing vaguely east. “What do you think?”

“I could be tempted,” Sasha grins. “Lead on then. I’m sure they’ll find us eventually.”  
  


* * *

**  
19th**

Martin, in a change from form, does not kick off into a swearing tirade this time. They’re watching another Christmas Carol, and they hear an aggrieved noise, drawn out and despairing, an ‘god, that’s disgusting, urgh’, and then the sounds of something heavy and soaked in brandy being chucked wholesale in the bin.

A concerned look passes over Jon’s face, and he makes to get up. Tim traps him with his leg.

“Unless you want your head bitten off, stay and watch Kermit.”

“I don’t understand it,” Jon says. “He doesn’t even _like_ Christmas pudding. He doesn’t like mince pies, Christmas cake, but he’s been driving himself demented in that kitchen, stressing himself out when there’s no _reason_ for – ”

“Keep your voice down, would you?” Sasha cuts him off. “Look, he wants to do this.”

“But I don’t – ”

“It’s our first Christmas in the flat,” Tim says. “And the first time he’s really had the chance to go the whole hog, do the whole domestic family round the dinner table thing. And you know our Martin, he just throws himself right in there. If he asks for help, we’ll be there to pitch in, but he wants to do this, so let him.”

Jon pauses after a moment. Nods. Closes his book, and gets up.

“I’m not going to stop him,” he says defensively at Tim’s expression. “Promise.”

Martin is clattering plates in a stewing temper as they listen to Jon enter the kitchen. 

“Do you – want some help? With the washing up?”

A gusty sigh, draining softer.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

There is the chinking sound of pots and cutlery being moved, the tap running.

“My gran,” Jon’s voice carries over the rush of water. “She wasn’t much of a cook, but she made a Christmas pudding every year. If you... if you like, I can show you? We should have enough flour, and… well, we can make one together?”

Martin’s voice is noticeably thicker when he replies.

“I’d… I’d like that.”  
  


* * *

**  
22nd**

She doesn’t hear the mobile rattle and buzz on the bedside table the first time. Sweaty, the blankets off-angled and betraying her lower legs to the frigid thick of the room, she wallows in over-bright, clutching dreams. She opens her eyes groggily, disorientated and alone, and it takes a skipping moment to associate the sound around her with something tangible.

Her fingers leave the swaddling closeness of the duvet, scrabble towards her phone.

“Hmm?” she grunts.

“I tried calling before, but you didn’t pick up,” is the first thing Jon has decided to lead with. Clipped words, tone held low so as not to unsettle her headache that’s retreated back like a yellow weather warning. “Were you sick again? Is the headache back? Look, I can take an early finish, if it’s worse, we can go to A&E, get a taxi there…”

“ ‘wuz asleep,” Sasha croaks, wincing at the rosethorn scratch lining her inflamed throat. “s’ fine.”

“… You should have some water,” Jon says after a moment. It is difficult to tell when her attention is so scattershot but she thinks she hears a relieved outbreath from his end of the line. “Do you have enough cough medicine? I can pick some up at the shop.”

“ ‘took sum a few hours ago.”

“Have you had something to eat?”

“ah’ll have summin’ later.”

“Hm,” Jon says. “Have some water, then. Please,” he adds as a begrudging afterthought.

Sasha half sits herself up and manages to take a gulp of water from the mug on the bedside table. The room is shaded in greys, the curtains firmly closed, but she still screws her eyes up at the brightness.

“You sure you don’t want one of us there?”

“’m gonna go back to sleep,” Sasha mumbles. “ ‘s fine, Jon. I get it every year, ‘s just a cold.”

“Ok. Sleep well,” she thinks Jon might say, but she’s already started to doze off.

When she wakes up again, wretched and dry mouthed, there’s a weight depressing the bed.

“J’n?”

“I got you some Benylin,” Jon whispers, sat cautiously on the edge of the mattress. “Some Covonia if you get chesty, Lemsip – I know you don’t like the lemon, so there’s the blackcurrant one, I got a few boxes from Boots, should be enough I think, and Martin said we should get some lozenges, but we didn’t know what flavour, so we got a few to see what you liked…”

“What’s all that noise?” Sasha interrupts Jon’s wave-crash of speech blearily.

“Tim’s cooking you soup.”

“… with explosives?”

“I’ll tell him to be quieter.”

From the kitchen, she can hear some disagreement between Tim and Martin over the soup recipe. Sasha sniffles through her blocked nose, and quashes a scratchy cough, and smiles.  
  


* * *

**  
24th**

“Will you – er, there’s um… well, there’s a midnight mass. On over in Spitalfields. Would you, er, would you like to go?”

Martin’s cautious tone, wringing hands, and the fact his eye contact is reserved solely for Jon’s left shoulder tells Jon a lot. Namely, that the question isn’t so much if Jon would like to go as to whether Jon will come with Martin or not.

“I didn’t know you’d been thinking about going to one,” he says diplomatically.

Martin runs his hands through his flyaway hair.

“I. I used to go all the time. W-with mum, before she was… and this year, I just. I-I’ve been thinking about it, that’s all.”

“Of course, I’ll come,” Jon says. Reaching out, touching Martin’s arm. “Tim and Sasha?”

“They’re still wrapping presents. Didn’t want to bother them, I know they're not much for, you know, churches and stuff.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind us popping out then.”

The church, with more statues than Jon would expect compared to his own memories of the standard C of E affairs his gran used to take him to every Easter and Christmas, is flush with people when they arrive, a pleasant choir harmonising a multi-octave version of _Silent Night,_ but they manage to find a pew in the middle, and nod and shuffle their way past an elderly man and two teenagers. It’s been years since Jon stepped inside a church, and he’s fairly clueless about all the extra bits Martin’s version seems to have, so he follows Martin’s lead for the standing up and the sitting down, though he draws the line at kneeling. Martin’s lips mouth the words to all the creeds and responses, his face tight and thoughtful and discomforted. Jon pretends to give an overly formal handshake to see Martin’s expression break in a distracted smile during the sign of peace, and he stays sat, listening to the hum of the organ while Martin gets in a shuffling queue for communion.

Martin gets misty-eyed at _Once in Royal David’s City,_ and Jon holds his hand through _In the Bleak Midwinter_ as his expression twists teary. Croaky-voiced and full of a feeling too complicated for this building, he belts out _Hark the Herald Angels Sing,_ and Jon joins haltingly, following the hymn sheet.

“Thank you,” Martin says when they get back. Tim and Sasha already gone to bed, the shush of heavy breathing from behind the door. Soft-footed and stumbling with tiredness, they slip under the cover of Jon’s bed, the clock already ticked over into Christmas Day.

“Merry Christmas,” Jon mumbles, but Martin’s already asleep, his hand around Jon’s waist and his face buried in his hair.  
  
  


* * *

**  
25th**

After. Wrapping paper all shoved roughly into black bin bags. Hugs and beaming smiles, a number of soft kisses, and a few sneaky deeper ones. Empty plates, and drained wine glasses, a decimated cheese board speckled with cracker crumbs and chutney stains.

Jon’s dropped off against Martin’s shoulder. Sasha, sat cross legged on the floor at the base of the sofa, has fallen asleep against Tim’s legs.

The television plays on mute, and all is calm and bright.

**Author's Note:**

> Things that didn't make it into the fic, but need to be known:
> 
> > Martin's Christmas dinner was eventually less ambitious, but was a roaring success. His roast potatoes were only mildly burnt. Jon helped with the gravy, and TIm was allowed to set the pudding on fire. Martin forgot to tell anyone he put the traditional silver piece inside, and Sasha nearly lost a filling when she found it.
> 
> > Tim has a December birthday, and isn't really wild about the whole season to be honest. He much prefers Hogmanay, and religiously celebrates Burns Night in January.
> 
> > Every year, all three of them have to listen to Jon's 'Christmas is an over-commercial corporate holiday' spiel but he not-so-secretly loves the whole thing. 
> 
> > Sasha does up an end-of-the-bed stocking every year, complete with the traditional clementine and chocolate coins. As a joke, every year, one of their presents is a piece of coal she's carefully wrapped for each of them. 
> 
> Early drafts of this included  
> * Tim and Jon debating what the best chocolate in a Quality Street Box is.  
> * Jon and Sasha competitively trying to knit all Tim and Martin a scarf, glove and hat set.  
> * The Magnus Archives Christmas party was while Sasha was ill with her Christmas cold. All three of them showed up for a socially appropriate time, and then left. Martin spent the whole evening stealing chocolates for Sasha and shoving them in his pocket in a way that was in no way subtle.  
> * Tim and Martin got drunk on mulled wine, and misremembered the lyrics to the Christmas hits.  
> * Jon cries at the John Lewis Christmas advert without fail every time it comes on.


End file.
